


An Ideal Grace: How it didn't happen

by nekosmuse



Series: The Sonnet Series [2]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: First Time, How it didn't happen, Humor, M/M, Making fun of myself, Parody, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-03
Updated: 2011-12-02
Packaged: 2017-10-26 19:36:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/287096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nekosmuse/pseuds/nekosmuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Parody endings to An Ideal Grace (aka how Erik could have found out, but didn't).  You probably want to read An Ideal Grace first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Google

Raven sat in front of her and Erik's computer--a junky old refurbished thing they'd bought upon arriving in New York. She'd argued for something new--this one still ran Windows ME and had a 333Mhz processor--but Erik reminded her that they rarely ever used the one they'd left in storage in Germany--would they have it shipped over now that Erik wanted them to stay, she wondered--and that there really wasn't a point in spending the extra money for something that most of the time would just collect dust.

Raven had argued that she used it all the time, but in Erik's mind, surfing the internet did not qualify as a good use of a computer. The man was so backwards sometimes it boggled her mind.

She had, for example, found the listing for her job online. She also kept up to date on current events--i.e. read tabloid and celebrity blogs--and, much to the chagrin of her therapist, read copious survivor blogs and forums because it was probably the closest she was ever going to get to having some sort of support group. Her therapist, despite objecting to the anonymity of the internet, agreed that support was essential.

She could have also hunted down every last piece of information available on Charles Xavier, had Erik not expressly forbid her from doing exactly that. _I am not stalking him online, and neither are you. Do not, Raven. I will check your browser history._

The fact that Erik knew how to check browser history but had trouble working his Blackberry was something else that boggled her mind.

She'd cheated only once--had looked up Charles' Facebook account, though he'd set his privacy settings so that his profile included only the most basic of information. The only reason she'd even known it was his--and not some other Charles Xavier--was because his profile picture was unmistakable.

She toyed with the idea of searching now. She had enough basic information--Charles Xavier, Genetics at Columbia--to weed out any hits that didn't belong to him. She very much doubted Erik was actually checking her browser history, and even if he was, he was hardly going to be upset with her--more like demand to know what she knew.

She brought up a browser and typed _Charles Xavier_ into the search bar.

Over six million hits were returned. Raven scrolled carefully through all of them. Apparently, Charles was:

  


* A powerful mutant telepath from some comic book.  

  

* Bald  

  

* Confined to a wheelchair.  

  

* The leader of some band of superheroes who wandered around in ridiculous looking tights.  

  

* Heir to the Xavier family fortune (which, when Raven checked, was substantial).  

  

* The author of at least three books and dozens upon dozens of papers in the field of genetics.  

  

* A professor at Columbia University.  

  


Wait. A professor at Columbia University?

Raven clicked the link, and sure enough [there was Charles](http://www.nekosmuse.com/faculty.jpg).

She brought her palm to her forehead--because, really, there were days when she could just strangle her brother--and then turned to call over her shoulder, "Erik, you might want to come see this."

She was fairly certain he'd forgive her for violating his rule.


	2. Someone calls Charles Professor Xavier

Erik was in excellent form today, gesturing animatedly as he lectured on the importance of the Romantic era, _thirty-five years of greatest formal and thematic innovation in the scope of British poetry_. Charles watched, caught up in the discussion as he always was, contributing to the lecture far more than any of the other students in the class--far more than all of the students combined, if he was honest.

Erik beamed at him, smile at once proud and tentative, like he wasn't really used to smiling at someone, but seemed incapable of suppressing his glee. Charles smiled right back, soft and seductive, letting Erik see just how much he enjoyed these exchanges.

He was so lost in Erik's gaze--Erik so lost in his--that neither of them noticed their visitor. Not until a throat cleared. Then all eyes turned to the door, and there, standing half in the room, half out, was Warren Worthington the third, president of Columbia.

Charles, who knew Worthington through his brother--whom Charles had met at a university function a few years ago and had promptly slept with--offered a crooked smile. Erik just looked perplexed.

"My apologies, Professor Lehnsherr, but I require a moment of Professor Xavier's time," he said, and Charles had a feeling he already knew what this was about.

He'd heard grumblings last week about his presence in the class--about the favouritism Erik was showing him and the unfairness of having a faculty member as the class' star pupil. Undoubtedly someone had complained.

Charles stood, intent on following Worthington from the room--disappointment surging in his breast because undoubtedly he wouldn't be allowed to continue sitting in in Erik's class--when Erik said, "Professor?"

Both Charles and Worthington turned to stare in his direction. Erik looked... wrecked, was probably a good word. Charles frowned.

"I'm sorry, Professor Lehnsherr?" Worthington asked.

"You said Professor. Professor Xavier," he said. Charles had never heard him sound so gutted. He had no idea what had caused it.

"Yes," Worthington answered. "Professor Charles Xavier, and now, if you'll excuse us..."

But that was as far as he got before Erik was addressing Charles.

"You're a professor?" he practically demanded. Charles narrowed his gaze, confused.

"Um, yes? You didn't know that?" And surely that was impossible. How could Erik have mistaken him for anything else?

To Charles' surprise, rather than answer, Erik let out this little whimper--and Charles would forever lock the sound away, because it was so raw, so beautiful that Charles' heart literally stopped beating when he heard it. Charles had half a second to process it--and then convince his heart to start working again--before Erik dove forward, [leaping--leaping!--over the podium like he was some kind of Spartan warrior.](http://www.nekosmuse.com/stelios.gif)

He was on Charles in a second, pining Charles against the desk, lips catching Charles' in a frenzied kiss that would forever redefine Charles' definition of a good kiss. Charles whimpered into Erik's open mouth and then surged up against him--finally, finally, his mind shouted--arms coming around Erik's shoulders to pull him forward even as Erik's hands scrambled around his waist, pulling until Charles was flush.

And then he kept going. Momentum sent them stumbling backwards until Charles was practically sitting on his desk, legs coming up to wrap around Erik's waist as Erik plundered his mouth, sobbing as he did so, mumbling words that held only intent, and little meaning.

Throughout it all, Charles was only dimly aware that they were still in the middle of a classroom, being watched by Erik's students. Worthington was cursing, using one of Erik's texts to poke at them, shouting for them to _Stop this this instance!_ Somewhere from the back of the room, someone called out, _We don't mind_ , Charles becoming aware then of money exchanging hands.

Erik, who seemed oblivious to everything save Charles, started nipping at Charles' lips, hips grinding into Charles' until Charles was flushed and panting and dangerously close to coming in his pants. It took a good deal of effort to pull back from Erik's embrace--and he had to fight Erik to do so--the look on Erik's face--swollen lips, blown pupils--so primal Charles had to swallow twice before he was capable of speaking.

"Somewhere a little more private, my friend?" he managed. Erik grinned.

"My office isn't far," he said, and then, mindless of Worthington, or his students, or the fact that there was still an hour left of class, he grabbed Charles around the waist, tossed him over his shoulder, and carrying him from the room.

Charles could find no reason to complain.


	3. Scott Summers breaks the news

Erik sat, bent over his Genetics for Dummies book--he'd scowled at the librarian when she'd pointed him in its direction, but he had to admit now that it was probably the better option. He wasn't sure he'd manage with anything more advanced.

The door to his office stood open, a smattering of students passing through the halls--term paper assignments had gone out, so it was inevitable that his office hours would grow increasingly busy as they weeks went by.

Still, no one had been by to see him today, which was why Erik was indulging in some research. He'd just reached the section on mutation and eye colour--who knew Charles' eyes were the result of a mutation; it was all very fascinating--when a throat cleared inside his door.

Expecting a student, or maybe Charles--wishful thinking, he knew--Erik glanced up, surprised and more than a little annoyed to find Professor Summers standing in the doorway.

"Sorry to bug you," he said, "but I was hoping I could get you to sign off on these."

Erik nodded him into the room, closing his book and pushing it to the side. When Summers noticed it, his eyes grew wide.

"What?" Erik asked, suddenly feeling defensive.

"No, it's fine. It's just..." He floundered for several minutes. "I would have thought Charles would have answered any questions you had. He loves to talk about his work."

Erik glared, mouth pressing into a thin line. "Is that so," he said.

Summers hesitated, and then said, "He's probably better now, but when he was working on his PhD thesis, he pretty much went on about it nonstop." He shrugged then, letting out a little laugh, as though they had something in common, like Erik might actually want to spend time talking to Summers about this--which he didn't--and, wait...

"What?"

"No, you're right, sorry." Summers took back the papers Erik had signed, offered a little half wave, and then turned to the door.

"Stop," Erik said before he got half way there. Summers turned around. "What did you say about finishing his PhD?"

Summers hesitated, as though he didn't particularly want to be talking with Erik about any of this. "When we were dating, he was working on his PhD," he eventually said.

Erik frowned.

"Why didn't he finish?" he asked.

Confusion clouded Summer's features. "He did."

Erik shook his head, because that didn't make any sense--unless Charles was working on another PhD, and did that still make him a student?

He must have asked that last part out loud, because Summers was frowning at him, clearly confused.

"Charles isn't a student," he said. Erik's head shot up, gaze piercing. "He's a professor, with the Genetics Department."

Summers kept talking, saying something about four years and associate, but Erik didn't hear any of it. His entire world had narrowed to a single word. Professor.

"Excuse me," Erik found himself saying. He stood and left the room, Summers still mid-sentence. Erik ignored him, intent only on finding Charles, on verifying what he'd just learned, because if Summers' was right--if Charles was a professor...

The thought brought a smile to his face, even as he tried not to get his hopes up.

He took a cab to the Medical Center--although he'd had to look up exactly where the Genetics Department was housed. It probably, he realized in hindsight, would have been easier to simply look Charles up in the directory--and if he was a professor, he would have undoubtedly been listed--but Erik wasn't exactly thinking clearly. Instead he stormed into the Hammer Health Sciences Center, checked the wall listing for which floor the Genetics Department was housed on, and then climbed onto an elevator.

He didn't have the patience to actually search for Charles, so as soon as the elevator opened, he grabbed the first person he saw--by the elbow, the boy startling fiercely--and asked, "Where can I find Charles Xavier?"

The boy's--although he was probably the same age as Charles--eyes widened.

"Um, he's in the lab," he said, pointing Erik down the hall. Erik nodded, released his hold on--McCoy, his nametag said--and set off down the hall.

He passed several labs before finding Charles--and even then he almost missed him, bent over as he was, so intent on his task that Erik wanted nothing more than to distract him. Without thinking, Erik pushed his way through the door.

Charles glanced up, startled--becoming even more startled when he registered who it was standing inside his lab.

"Erik," he said, and then, "You're not really supposed to be in here. You've just contaminated all my samples."

Erik ignored the rebuff.

"Are you a professor?"

Charles frowned. He put down the pipette he was holding.

"Um, yes?" he answered, clearly confused.

He'd been expecting it--hoping for it--but until Charles said it, Erik hadn't realized just how desperate he was for it to be true. He grinned.

"Good," he said, and then, because he'd been wanting to for a while, asked, "Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?"

Charles blinked. A soft smile spread across his face.

"I would," he said. He looked flummoxed. Erik had half a second to admire it before the lab door opened, a woman Erik vaguely recognized--Moira, Charles' friend from the park, his mind supplied--stormed in. She grabbed Erik by the wrist.

"You can't be in here," she said, dragging him towards the door.

Erik didn't bother putting up a struggle, but as she was hauling him through the door, he did turn and call over his shoulder, "7:00 PM, sharp," to which Charles nodded enthusiastically.

It looked like Erik owed Professor Summers both an apology, and a thank you.


	4. Charles tells Erik

There was something almost magical about the first snowfall of the season, even though everyone else he'd talked to today had grumbled about it coming so early. Charles didn't mind--he'd mind come January, when the streets were knee-deep in mucky slush, but for now he was content to appreciate the transition.

"It was only a few weeks ago people were still wearing shorts," a voice said beside him, Charles startling--enough so that the next sip of his coffee went down the wrong way, Charles sputtering awkwardly while Erik winced sympathetically. "Sorry," Erik said when Charles got himself under control.

"It's fine," Charles said, genuinely meaning it. He hadn't expected to run into Erik today--he'd never run into Erik on the way to his bioethics course.

"I saw you from my office, thought I'd come down and say hello." Erik looked as though the admission had cost him something--though what, Charles didn't know. There was something decidedly vulnerable in the duck of his head. Charles' heart stuttered in his chest.

"Hello," he said, feeling more than a little foolish for it, but the smile Erik shot him was worth the temporary embarrassment. "I have something for you," he said then, because he'd meant to seek Erik out after class, but this seemed as opportune a moment as any other.

Erik arched an eyebrow, but didn't say anything, so Charles riffled through his messenger bag and pulled out a copy of the very first intro to genetics textbook he'd co-authored. He handed it over.

Erik accepted it, eyes growing wide when he took in Charles' name.

"You wrote this?" he said, sounding impressed. Charles felt himself flush with pride.

"Co-authored, really. Chapters 1, 6, 7, 8-13, 17-19, and 22 are mine."

Erik still looked impressed. He turned the book over in his hands.

"I didn't know they let graduate students write textbooks," he said. Charles frowned. Try as he might, he couldn't figure out what Erik meant by that.

"Um, usually they don't," he said, which wasn't strictly true, but graduate students were usually relegated to a third name, and not the first.

Erik glanced up, wide smile appearing on his face. "You're just the exception to the rule, then," he said.

It took Charles several seconds of frowning to piece together what Erik meant by that. When he did, it was like being kicked in the gut. Oh, God, did Erik think he was a graduate student?

"Um, sorry, I think you might be confused," Charles said. "I'm not a graduate student." Erik's smile fell. "I'm an assistant professor--though, technically I expect to be made associate before the year is out. Did you not know that?"

Erik, who looked a little dazed, was staring at Charles like he couldn't quite fathom what Charles was telling him. He shook his head--though whether he was answering Charles' question or just needed to clear his thoughts, Charles couldn't say. It occurred to him then that maybe Erik didn't believe him, so he fumbled in his pocket and pulled out his [business card](http://www.nekosmuse.com/chcard.jpg).

"See," he said.

Erik took it, staring at the card like it held all the answers in the universe. When he glanced back up again, the expression on his face was filled with such hope that Charles' knees threatened to give way.

"Oh God," he said. "Is this why we're not dating?" It hadn't occurred to him until now, the possibility that Erik was keeping his distance because he thought Charles a student--he still couldn't quite fathom why Erik had thought that, but it certainly explained Erik's behaviour.

"I thought..." Erik seemed incapable of forming words. Charles had never seen him look so vulnerable. He stepped into Erik's space.

"I'm not. I promise I'm not," Charles said, and the smile that earned him was enough to steal his breath.

A look of uncertainty crossed Erik's face, one that Charles couldn't for the life of him decipher. He tilted his head, asking the question with a slight narrowing of his eyes. Erik flushed. He swallowed.

"I don't want to be forward, but..." He exhaled. "Can I kiss you?" he finally asked. He looked like it had physically hurt to ask.

In response, Charles let a giddy smile spread across his face.

"Absolutely," he said, stepping even further into Erik's space.

He was expecting Erik to lean forward and press their lips together. What he wasn't expecting was for Erik to bring his hands to Charles' face, thumbs brushing soft circles across the arch of Charles' cheekbones. He spent several minutes like that, caressing Charles' face, staring into Charles' eyes, soft smile playing across his face. When he did lean forward, it was agonizingly slow. Charles kept his eyes open, watching as Erik slowly closed the distance between them.

The kiss, when it happened, was nothing like Charles had imagined either. It was soft, and more than a little chaste, Erik as hesitant in this as he seemed to be in everything where Charles was concerned. Charles could do little else but tremble under the press of Erik's lips, wanting so badly to surge forward, open his mouth and involve their tongues. Instead he let Erik set the pace, Erik kissing Charles like Charles was something precious; something fragile. When he pulled back--too soon, too soon, Charles protested--he was wearing a soft, dazed smile.

"Thank you," he said, like Charles had just given him the world.

Charles swallowed, even as he nodded.

"So, about that dinner," he said when he could speak again. The smile Erik gave him was quite possibly the most beautiful thing Charles had ever seen.

"Dinner would be good," Erik said, sounding pleased. Between that, and the way that Erik was smiling at him, Charles wasn't entirely certain whether to swoon in delight, or lunge forward and kiss Erik properly.

He settled on offering Erik a hand, one that Erik took without hesitation.

"Walk me to me next class?" Charles asked, and when Erik frowned, he added, "The one I teach."

"Ah," Erik said, and then, "You mind if I sit in?"

"Not at all," Charles said, and he really, really didn't.


	5. Random twist of fate

"But I'm sick, Erik," Raven whined. Erik rolled his eyes.

"Fine, but you owe me," he said, already grabbing his keys, preparing himself for the embarrassment of having to buy her magazines from the guy on the corner.

He drew his coat tight as he left their building, nodding to the doorman as he did so. He got a curt nod in return, Erik wondering then if he could have paid the guy to suffer Erik's embarrassment for him. It was too late now, Erik thought, breathing deep the cool autumn air. It was cold enough that his breath left icy tendrils in its wake.

The guy at the corner had pretty much every rag known to man, but Erik still had to consult the post-it Raven had written for him with her requested magazines. He told the guy, letting him find them while Erik scanning the stands directly in front of him.

He probably wouldn't have noticed it, were it not sitting right there--Erik had never been one to read the Post--but immediately the picture on the front drew his gaze.

He thought at first his eyes were playing tricks on him, but then he took in the caption and realized that, yes, he was staring at Charles Xavier.

[On the cover of the New York Post](http://www.nekosmuse.com/tabloid.jpg).

It wasn't so much the shock of seeing Charles on the cover of a magazine, or even the shock of discovering that Charles was heir to what appeared to be a powerful company, but rather a single line that drew his attention.

 _Currently a Columbia U professor_

Erik blinked.

Because surely that couldn't be right, could it? The Post was notorious for posting half-truths, so it was entirely possible they had gotten this wrong. Still, had Erik made a considerable mistake? When he thought about it, he hadn't really asked, had he? He'd just assumed.

The stand owner came over with Raven's magazines, and Erik quickly grabbed a copy of the Post. He took it and Raven's reading back to their apartment, wishing then that he had Charles' number.

"Have you seen this?" he asked Raven when he got upstairs. He tossed the Post on her lap. She coughed--a harsh, wet sounding thing--and glanced at the paper.

"Wow, seriously?" she said.

"Do you think it's true?" Erik asked, but Raven only shook her head.

"You could ask him," she said.

"I have no way to get a hold of him until Monday," Erik said. He rather needed to know before then--which probably wasn't entirely true, but he certainly wanted to know before then.

Raven, who was looking more than a little worse for wear, grabbed her phone, fiddled with it, and then handed it to Erik. Erik was surprised to find that she had brought up Charles' phone number.

"How did you..." Erik began, but before he could finish, Raven said, "You don't want to know."

Erik took her word for it, grabbing back his paper and taking it and Raven's phone into his bedroom.

Charles answered after two rings. Erik cut right to the chase.

"I have a copy of the New York Post in front of me," he said.

"Erik?" Charles sounded surprised--and more than a little pleased, Erik was happy to note.

"The Post, Charles."

"Oh, yes, that," Charles said. "It's not true. I have no intention of ever taking hold of my father's company." He laughed, a little self-deprecating, Erik thought. It still wasn't at all what he was talking about.

"The part about you being a Columbia U professor. Is that true?" He was well aware that he sounded exasperated, but he couldn't help himself--he really, really couldn't.

There was a brief pause, during which Erik could almost picture Charles frowning. Eventually he said, "Yes?" like he wasn't quite sure what Erik was driving it. Erik grinned.

"Where are you?" he said.

After another brief hesitation, Charles said, "My apartment."

Erik shook his head. "Your address, Charles, because I am coming over, and when I get there, I am going to tear off your clothes and have my way with you."

This time, during Charles' pause, Erik pictured him gaping like a fish. "Really?" he eventually said, sounding more than just a little delighted.

"Really," Erik said, and Charles didn't hesitate in rhyming off his address.


End file.
